Ashes
by obsessmuch
Summary: What is left, when the brightest flame burns out?
1. Prologue

**A/N- **I'm not sure about this. I kind of want to continue it, but I kind of don't. Let me know what you think. It's a bit sparse, because if I do continue it as a chaptered fic, it's just a prelude - something to set up the situation, as it were. Meh. I don't like it, but I like the ideas I have for the whole story if I choose to continue it. Like I said, let me know what you think.

* * *

_'Herr God, Herr Lucifer  
Beware  
Beware._

_Out of the ash_  
_I rise with my red hair_  
_And I eat men like air._' – Sylvia Plath, _Lady Lazarus_

* * *

Was her life over when Harry died?

She thought so at the time. He was the love of her life, her hero, her reason to fight. She'd believed herself in love with him since she was eleven years old, and known herself to be in love with him since she was sixteen. How could her life go on without him?

But go on it did, and the fight continued around her.

Before the battle, she hadn't fully realised what the word 'horror' meant. She did now. She had known as she held Neville – brave, sweet Neville – in her arms as he bled to death. He had been caught by falling debris, and his injuries had been irreversible. The skin on the side of his head had been blown away. She could see grey shards of his skull, and his teeth through the gaping hole in his cheek. It had taken him two hours to die. His last word had been 'Trevor'. She'd handed him his beloved frog, and Neville squeezed the animal to death in the final throes of his agony.

She hadn't seen Harry die. Hagrid had brought his lifeless body into the school, and she and her friends had been forced to watch as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the Death Eaters mutilated his corpse. His remains were left scattered across the Hogwarts lawn. His glasses remained on the bloody football that his head had become.

By the time her friends had died, she knew that her life would continue, no matter who she lost. It's all very well to talk of your life being over, but actual physical survival comes all too naturally. It is not, she had realised, possible to actually die of grief. The dying you had to do yourself, if you had the nerve, which Ginny had discovered she did not posses.

After Neville had died, Luna was the next to go. Greyback dragged her off somewhere. She hadn't even screamed. Ginny, Ron and Hermione found her body later by following stray locks of blood-soaked blonde hair.

Hermione was the only one to survive, although where she was, Ginny did not know. All of the others were gone. Every friend she'd ever known. Gone.

She even knew she'd survive when she found her father sobbing over her mother's body. By that point, too much had happened to compute anything else. Fred was gone. Her darling, beloved Fred was gone, and George was without his other self. Her mother was dead. Another victim. Another statistic. How could she understand it? She was seventeen years old and she'd lost her mother and her favourite brother. Two out of nine, and only seven left.

When the battle was over, the man who had once been Tom Riddle had lined up her father and her remaining brothers. One by one, he had killed them himself.

She'd been made to watch as they'd died. She'd been kept last in line, awaiting her turn.

Her father. Her daddy. He'd turned to his children, told his boys to be brave, then kissed his daughter on the forehead.

Charlie. He'd spat in You-Know-Who's face before he died.

Percy. He'd sobbed until the bitter end.

Bill – her beloved Bill. He'd asked if his wife could be shown mercy. You-Know-Who had laughed.

George, her remaining favourite. He had said nothing as he went to join his twin.

Then Ron. He'd struggled so he might hold Hermione one last time, to no avail. When he'd died, a screaming Hermione was dragged away.

Ginny fainted at that point.

What she didn't see was the man who had once been Tom Riddle stand over her, wavering in his decision to kill. The girl was pretty, even he could see that. And no tear tracks marked her cheeks. He liked that. He couldn't stand crying children – he'd never been able to abide it, not even in the orphanage.

Not only that, but he felt that he'd seen her before. Where? He could not recall. But there was something indefinable about her that he recognised. Something…

He was curious.

'Severus?'

Snape lifted up his head, his expression unfathomable. He hadn't said a word since the Potter boy's death.

'What is the girl's name?'

Snape looked at the girl. Red hair. Pretty face. He'd always been grateful he'd never had much cause to be around her. Too many memories.

'Ginevra.'

His master nodded. 'Take her to the manor. She can sleep in the cellar.'

For the first time since Potter's death, Snape felt an emotion. Surprise. Nothing more. 'You do not intend to kill her, my Lord?'

Lord Voldemort smiled. He was in the mood for it, this evening. 'Do you know, Severus, this time I am inclined to be merciful. It has happened before, has it not? You may recall it.'

Snape's hand tightened around his wand, unseen by his side. Yes, he could recall it.

_-If the girl means so much to her, Severus, you may keep her. No harm will come to her once her son is dead, I assure you.-_

A lie. A lie that had destroyed Snape's life. And now Potter was dead. Snape had kept himself alive and sane only by dedicating himself to keeping Lily's son alive. All in vain.

But he would not fail her completely. He could do it now-

No. Not tonight. It would require planning, and careful timing.

He picked Ginny Weasley up in his arms, and apparated to Malfoy Manor.


	2. Day One

**A/N - **Hey all. This has been ages, I know. Depression sucks. Think it's gone now, though. Roll on hypomania!

Any readers from Leeds? I'm moving there in a month for university purposes. Excited!

Music: Baby Fratelli, The Fratellis (how DARE they split? HOW DARE YOU, GOOD SIRS, HOW DARE YOU?)

Book: Glue, Irvine Welsh

Movie: Nothing. Am waiting for Kick Ass to come out on DVD with baited breath, though. Man, Kick Ass is _good._

Wearing: Sex Pistols t-shirt, black nightie, biker boots.

Mood: Off out for the first time in days. Am scared of the bright lights of the city.

* * *

_'Mother of fire, let me stand at your devouring gate_  
_as the sun dies in your arms and you loosen it's terrible weight.' - _Anne Sexton_, Angels Of The Love Affair_

* * *

The dreams had plagued her since she was eleven years old. Every time she slept, they would haunt her.

She dreamt now as she lay unconscious, sprawled on the cellar floor.

_She was alone in the dark. Her skin was on fire. She could feel the flames licking up her arms and legs. She tried to open her mouth to scream. She could not. Her mouth was filled with ash._

_The flames burned themselves away. She lay still, breathing though her nose. She could not move. Her body refused to obey her mind's commands._

_Hissing. Hissing in the dark. Please, no. Please, not here._

_Something smooth and scaly slid over her stomach, and the snake's body wound its way up her chest, around her neck. It strangled her, its teeth sank into her neck._

_In the darkness, she saw two red eyes watching her with amusement. 'Don't cry so, Ginevra. You know I dislike it.'_

She bolted up in the darkness of the cellar, finally able to scream.

* * *

Lord Voldemort did not have nightmares.

Lord Voldemort did not dream. It was rare enough that he slept.

He sat at the desk he had 'borrowed' from the Malfoys, in the grand study he had 'borrowed' from the Malfoys, in the manor he had 'borrowed' from the Malfoys, filing through the list of death warrants he had ordered Rookwood to draw up for the surviving prisoners taken during the battle of Hogwarts.

Augusta Longbottom. Condemned.

Seamus Finnegan. Condemned.

Andromeda Tonks. Hermione Granger. Dean Thomas. Minevra Mcgonagall. Horace Slughorn.

Condemned.

It was becoming monotonous.

Ginevra Weasley.

He paused. Where had he heard the name before?

Ah yes, the small girl he had decided to grant a stay of execution.

Why had he done so?

He knew her. He had come across her before, and she had some significance – he was certain of that.

She had been Potter's girlfriend, they told him. Perhaps he recognised her from a past intrusion into Potter's mind.

It seemed unlikely, though. He felt he'd met her personally. But where, he could not recall.

He put the warrant aside, flexing his fingers in front of him. He would discover where he knew her from. Then he would condemn her.

The other warrants could wait till later.

* * *

Severus Snape dozed in his chair by the fire, a glass of half-drunk brandy in his hand. He hadn't slept in the thirty-odd hours since the battle. He hadn't meant to sleep again until he'd worked out how to finish his mission to avenge Lily. But nature was winning against him.

_He was seventeen again, and he was at the Yule Ball. Avery and Nott were sneaking gulps out of an illegal bottle of whiskey. Amelia Parkinson was wittering on in his ear about something he didn't care about._

_He watched the dance floor. Lily was dancing with Potter. She was shorter than him, so he'd picked her up by the waist and was waltzing around with her so they were nose to nose. She laughed, delighted, as he spun her around, her feet hanging several inches from the ground._

_She'd never laughed or smiled with him like that._

'Severus!'

Snape started awake, automatically reaching for his wand. He was rewarded with a high, cold laugh.

'There is no need for that, my friend. We've won. Our enemies will not trouble us again.'

Snape turned for the source of the noise, and found it in the fireplace. The Dark Lord's head floated in the flames, smiling up at him.

'My Lord, what is it that you require?'

There was a short pause before Voldemort answered. 'The girl, Severus. Little Miss Weasley. Bring her to me now. I'm in the study.'

His head disappeared with a small pop.

Snape sighed. He was sick, thoroughly sick, of indulging the Dark Lord's whims.

He thought it would end with Potter. He'd been assured that Potter would end this nightmare for him. Three years of serving the monster who'd killed the love of his life, his reason for living. He had been happy to do it when Dumbledore had told him it would be invaluable for him to serve the Dark Lord in order to dispose of him.

But what now? Neither could live while the other survived – that was true enough. But did it mean that no-one else had the ability to dispose of the Dark Lord?

Snape shook his head. He had no choice, either way. He had to try, or die in the attempt, because he couldn't live like this any longer.

He could not do it now. The Horcruxes had not all been destroyed, that much was obvious. Why else had Potter's curse against the Dark Lord rebounded so catastrophically, killing him in the process?

Dumbledore had been wrong. There had been more than eight vessels for the Dark Lord's soul. But what the final one was Snape could not say, and could not yet venture a guess.

And until he found out, he had no option but to wait, and continue to play his part.

* * *

She hadn't eaten in three days.

She curled up, hugging her skinny knees to her chest, allowing her thumb to creep into her mouth, an old habit from childhood her mother had scolded her for until she stopped when she was five.

She wanted her mother.

The cellar was empty, apart from a bucket.

She'd been forced to piss in that bucket.

Fred and George would have managed to make her laugh about that, had they been here. Percy had told her Fred had laughed even as he'd died.

Poor Percy. She'd spent so much time disliking him, never dreaming that one day she really would lose him forever.

Her wounds from the battle were still raw. A gash on her knee had opened up and become infected. It oozed clear, watery pus.

Her dad used to get her to try muggle remedies for cuts and bruises. _Plasters_, he used to call them.

Ginny didn't cry. She would have, if she had any ability left in her to feel or to process the fact that she was grieving. As it was, her pain was so real, so raw, so all-encompassing that it was beyond her own comprehension.

The door swung open, but she didn't raise her head. She simply removed her thumb from her mouth, looking at the long black robe that swept along the ground.

'The Dark Lord wants to see you, Miss Weasley.'

Snape's voice. She'd never liked him. Now she hated him. She hated him just for being there.

She raised her head, looking at the sallow, ugly face of her headmaster. The loathing she felt for him lit a fire in the black hole she felt her body to be.

'Tell your master,' she said in a low, flat monotone, 'that he can go fuck himself, and his greasy-haired lapdog while he's at it.'

Snape raised an eyebrow. 'It would be wise, Miss Weasley, for you to leave behind the disobedience and foul temper you exhibited as a schoolgirl when you speak to the Dark Lord.'

'Or what?' she whispered, with the ghost of an utterly joyless smile. 'You'll put me in detention? _Sir?_'

'I shall do nothing,' he said, too weary to rise to the bait. 'But I shall warn you – the Dark Lord, for reasons best known to himself, has decided to spare you for now. I doubt very much that he shall extend his mercy should you not please him.'

Ginny frowned hard, rising to her feet. 'Please him? Just what, exactly, do you mean by-'

'I mean whatever the Dark Lord means,' he said impatiently. 'Perhaps he wants to talk to you. Perhaps he wants to look at you. But even if he should ask you to dance on one foot while singing the Hogwarts song, you would be wise to do it, if you want to remain alive.'

'Well that's fortunate, then,' she spat at him, 'because I _don't_ want to remain alive, and I want to 'please' that reptilian shit-slice even less.'

Snape could feel his patience fraying. She had no gratitude. None. He didn't have to help her, and yet she threw it back in his face, just like her ungrateful swine of a boyfriend.

'Hear me, Ginevra,' he said quietly. 'You would do well to take my advice, to keep your temper, hold your tongue, and do as he asks of you.'

'Take your advice?' she hissed at him, before spitting on the floor. 'Do you really expect me to believe that you want what's best for _me_? You don't care about me – why should you?'

He looked at her for a few seconds. Her brown eyes were blazing with fire.

'Although we have hardly been on the best of terms, you are still a pupil at my school,' he murmured, taking a few steps towards her. 'And I cannot neglect my duties as headmaster, even in circumstances such as these-'

'Your duties as headmaster?' she whispered disbelievingly. 'You two-faced cunt. You made us torture each other during class. Don't tell me you give a damn about your students!'

He looked at her for a long time, his expression giving nothing away. 'Such charming language,' he said acidly. 'Your parents would be proud if they could see you now, I'm sure.'

Without thinking about what she was doing, she threw out her fist, punching him hard across the jaw.

He recoiled, making no sound, and when he turned to face her again there was a bead of blood at the corner of his mouth.

'You little-'

He raised his wand, but she raised her chin, glaring at him defiantly.

That look gave him pause. Hard. Blazing. Full of fire.

'Well go on, then!' she said, goading him. 'Curse me, kill me! It's what you lot are good at, isn't it?'

He took a few deep breaths through his nose before lowering his wand, his lip curling. 'I hardly think you'd be worth the effort. If you're so determined to die then you'd do best to come with me now.'

Ginny pressed her lips together. 'I have no choice, I suppose?'

Snape's lips curled upwards. 'I'm pleased we finally understand one another.'

Ginny shook her head. 'No. I'll never understand _you_, Snape. And I doubt the reversal will ever be true, either.'

He looked at her for a moment, before shaking his head. 'No doubt that is no loss to either of us.'

With that, he took her by the arm and led her from the cellar.

* * *

'Ginevra Weasley as you requested, my Lord.'

Voldemort looked at the child Snape held by the arm. She glared up at him, her face alive and beautiful with utter hatred.

'Thank you, Severus. You may leave us.'

Snape bowed and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Ginny looked up at the Frankenstein that had once been Tom Riddle. She realised, with a shock, that she hadn't known what true loathing was until that moment in time.

He smiled at her. 'Good evening, Ginevra. I'm very pleased you could join me this evening.'

She said nothing.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. 'Are you always so quiet, Miss Weasley?'

She turned her head from him. 'I have nothing to say to you,' she said quietly, not trusting herself to raise her voice.

He walked around his desk, taking a few steps towards her.

'You're grieving,' he said matter-of-factly. 'You loved your family, I imagine. But grief will do you no good, you must understand that.'

Ginny would not let tears fall from her eyes. She would not even let them form. She hardened them inside her, feeling them freeze with the force of her hatred.

'It is ironic, is it not?' Voldemort said after a while. 'Dumbledore's cherished view that love is the most powerful force in the world may have been proved right, after all.'

Ginny looked up at him, daring herself to answer. 'Meaning?'

He smiled smoothly. 'Meaning that if it were not for love, your family might still be here now.'

She choked on her own rage. 'They'd be here now if you hadn't raised your wand and killed them one by one!' she said, her words shaking with fury.

He raised his hand. 'My killing them was not motiveless, and it was your family's capacity for love that provided that motive. Your brother was best friends with Harry Potter, was he not? You yourself were romantically involved with him. Yes, it was your family's love for him that ultimately led to their demise, as you may not have all had to die had you not been so utterly, thoughtlessly loyal to him. What do you think of that, Ginevra? I daresay you'd renounce every bit of contact you and your family had ever had with him if you could only have your family back.'

She gaped up at him, rent utterly dumbstruck by loathing.

His grin widened and he stepped closer to her. 'You hate me. I can _see _it.' He paused, a few steps away from her. 'That's good. It will make everything much more… interesting.'

She took a huge breath to the depth of her lungs.

'I would think the world must be a fascinating place for you,' she hissed. 'After all, there isn't one person in the world who doesn't hate you. No one will be sorry when you die, which will probably be soon, once the Order regroup.'

He rolled his eyes. 'How little you comprehend. The Order are all but destroyed. All who cared to resist me are dead or imprisoned.'

'Tyranny breeds discontent,' she fired back. 'And discontent breeds resistance. And the whole world knows about your Horcruxes now. I wouldn't bet one knut on you surviving to the end of the year.'

It was the mention of the Horcruxes that did it. He stepped back from her and calmly raised his wand. '_Crucio!_'

He watched passively as she screamed, twitching and thrashing on the floor. It always reminded him of the spiders he would pin down with nails as a child – the twitching was very similar, he found, although obviously spiders couldn't scream, which took the fun out of it, somewhat.

She curled up on her side, shaking, as he lifted the curse from her. Weakness. How he despised it.

'Get up,' he said curtly.

She obeyed without thinking, immediately hating herself for it.

He walked over to his desk, pulling a quill out of an inkwell. 'As an associate of Harry Potter,' he said as he scribbled on the parchment, 'and as a traitor to the Dark Lord, you will be found guilty by a public trial held the day after tomorrow, and executed one week from today.'

She raised her head, twangs of aftershock twitching throughout her body. 'One week?'

He held up the parchment for her to see. 'This is your death warrant. One week.'

She trembled with rage. 'If you've already decided on my sentence, then what the hell is the point of a trial?'

He smiled. 'The formalities must be seen to be observed, Ginevra. I don't think the general public would condone us sentencing a seventeen year old girl to death without a trial. But the sentence _is_ predetermined. It would be cruel to allow you to believe otherwise.'

She stood up, shaking with rage, not fear. 'I don't think that a trial would make the murder of a schoolgirl agreeable to the general public. People will hate you for it.'

He threw back his head and laughed. 'My dear, they _already_ hate us, you know that as well as I do. But they fear us, and _that_ is what's important. Nevertheless, if we are to receive their eventual compliance, now that Potter is dead a semblance of law and order must be maintained, if in appearances only. If not, anarchy will follow, which will not get us anywhere. Surely you understand. Seven days, Ginevra. One week.'

He placed the parchment back on his desk, the leaned forwards, observing her over the top of steepled fingers. She glared back at him, hating him more than she'd ever done before. He'd ruined her life when she was a child, and then as a young woman he'd finished her completely.

'Do you think death frightens me now?' she murmured. 'I watched you kill my remaining family, one by one. I watched you carve up my boyfriend's carcass and laugh as your friends played with his remains. I'm not afraid to die. I'll welcome it.'

He raised his head, a tiny frown knotting his brow. A lack of fear of death. It was a viewpoint he'd never been able to understand. He doubted it was genuine. She was just a child espousing Gryffindor views.

But why did she look so familiar?

'I know you, don't I?' he said after a while.

She said nothing.

He lowered his hands. 'I've met you before. I can feel it.'

She drew in a breath. She didn't care about anything. Her life was over. If anything, she wanted this man - this monster - to realise what he'd done to her.

'Yes, you know me,' she murmured.

He smiled in reply. 'I know many people. There are many whose lives I affect, whether I intend it or not. And although I recall your face, Ginevra, I do not remember why. Would you care to enlighten me as to our previous meeting?'

He didn't know. He genuinely didn't remember. It was the most horrible year of her life, and yet the one that had defined her, and this man, this _thing_ had caused it…

And he couldn't even remember it happening.

Ginny looked him in the eye. She felt no fear. She had lost her family. She had lost the love of her life. She had lost her friends.

She felt anger, certainly. And such grief that she was surprised her heart was still beating. But no fear. Not yet.

'When I was eleven years old, I kept a diary,' she said quietly.

He raised his eyebrows at her. 'How _fascinating._ Please, continue.'

He was still the same boy, she realised. He was as cruel, as condescending as he was as a boy of sixteen. He wasn't made this way. He was evil, and that was how he was _born._

_Is that possible?_ she thought to herself.

'I told my diary everything,' she went on. 'I complained about my brothers, about our lack of money. I told it how excited I was about going to Hogwarts, about how terrified I was that I wouldn't fit in-'

'My time is not inexhaustible, Ginevra. Could you please get to the point so I can decide whether or not to waste my time with you.'

She took a deep, steadying breath, attempting to quell her temper.

'The diary,' she said slowly, 'began to write back.'

His expression sharpened. _Now_ he was interested. He brought his hand up to his chin thoughtfully.

'And… what did it say?'

What did it say?

_Ginny… that's such a pretty name… are you pretty, Ginny?_

_Please write to me often, Ginny. I get so lonely, trapped in here on my own…_

_Oh, come now – you didn't even know Justin…_

_How could I have made you do it, Ginny? I am merely ink and paper. You did it, you did it-_

_Oh, will you please stop crying? You would test the patience of a saint, Ginevra Weasley. _

_Do as you're told, you pathetic, snivelling, lazy little-_

'It sympathised with me,' she murmured. 'It told me they'd always been alone at Hogwarts too, but they didn't mind. It told me that I didn't need to be alone, not when I had him-'

'Him?' he asked, his eyes lighting up.

Ginny bit her tongue.

He raised his eyebrows. He understood what the diary had been, now. 'So, he spoke to you. How often?'

Ginny felt herself being sucked back to when she was eleven years old – small, scared, vulnerable, lonely, and infatuated with a boy trapped in a book.

'Once a day, every day,' she murmured, forgetting for a moment who she was talking to. 'Then after a while, more often. Perhaps five, six times a day. I was so lonely, I didn't have anyone else to talk to-'

She remembered herself suddenly, and stopped herself saying any more.

He stood up, smiling horribly. 'What was his name, your paper-bound companion?'

She looked back at him. She would not tell him. She would not open up her soul to him for the second time.

But he knew what her silence meant. He laughed a low, mocking chuckle as he stood up, walked around the table and towards her.

'A memory bound in the pages of a diary. A complex piece of magic – one certainly beyond the ability of a schoolboy. Or should I say, of _most _schoolboys.'

He reached her, smiling down at her, and she knew then that he knew. There was no doubt about it.

'Clever, was he?' he drawled. 'Clever, and charming, and, dare I say it, handsome?'

'I never saw him,' she said quickly, which was technically true. But she'd seen him in her dreams – he'd made sure of that at the time. And the dreams had never stopped - she'd often wondered why that was.

His mouth twisted. 'Never?'

She wasn't quite sure when it happened, but it seemed that he lowered his head for the briefest of moments, his hood falling over his face, and when he raised it again he was… he was…

Beautiful.

Once again, he was the angel-faced young man of her past. The fine-boned, handsome boy that cradled her as she slept; haunting her dreams with his smooth, promising smile.

'Ah, he was a fine-looking boy, was he not?' he murmured, his voice lower, pleasanter – a sweet hum compared to the high scraping she had heard from him so far that night. 'Go ahead, Ginevra, you can tell me – was he not perhaps the most handsome young man you have ever set your eyes on?'

She was silent, though her ears roared with her blood. Her breath hitched in her throat as she stared at the smiling boy, man, snake, whatever he was – the angel that faced her with a poisonous smile.

His eyes glinted as he stepped towards her, closer, and closer, until she could feel his cool breath on her forehead.

She did not step back. She didn't even flinch. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a moment of genuine mirth.

'I am quite real, I assure you,' he said in that public-schoolboy drawl so familiar to her. 'This is no memory. This is a real Tom Riddle you see before you. Flesh and blood.'

He reached out and trailed cold finger down her cheek, sending a snake slithering down into her guts. Tom had never touched her before. Not physically.

'It's only an illusion,' she whispered, her breath fluttering out of her lips.

A dark eyebrow raised a fraction. 'Indeed.'

He lowered his hood again, and when he raised it he was the serpentine mutant that was Voldemort once again. He chuckled as she took an involuntary step back from him.

'Ah, but this form is less pleasing to you, isn't it?'

She didn't answer. But the blush writing its way across her face answered for her. That was worth pursuing, he knew it. But not now.

'But how?' he murmured, looking thoughtful for a moment. 'How did a schoolgirl get hold of a diary I'd entrusted to a most trusted servant? What was Lucius doing, allowing it out of his sight for a moment?'

Ginny allowed herself a moment of vindictive pleasure. Malfoy would be punished. That was one triumph she could savour.

He caught her tiny quiver of a smile, but he did not mention it. It moved him. Perhaps this tiny little flame of a girl had some ice in her soul, after all.

He stored that thought away for future use.

He reached out and took a lock of her hair in between his fingers. She looked up at him, and felt the first flickering of real terror.

'This diary,' he murmured. 'Did it merely talk to you, or-'

There was a knock at the door, shattering the moment. He dropped his hand from her hair and turned from her.

'Come.'

Snape stepped into the room, and took in the Dark Lord's triumphant smile, and the girl's flushed cheeks.

His own face betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

'Shacklebolt has been discovered, my Lord,' he said curtly. 'He was found gathering resistance in London. He's unconscious downstairs, but will probably be awake by now.'

'Will we be able to win him over, do you suppose?'

'I doubt it, master.'

'Well, there's no harm in trying, is there,' Voldemort replied with a laugh that implied he cared little, either way. 'Bring him to me now.'

Snape bowed. 'And the girl, my Lord?'

'You know,' Ginny said, rounding on Snape, 'I _do_ have a name, Snape. I'd appreciate it if you could bring yourself to use it.'

Voldemort laughed. 'She has a most delightful temper on her, does she not?'

Snape inclined his head, unsmiling. 'As you say.'

Voldemort turned to Ginny, looking at her intently. 'She will die within a week. _That_ is unavoidable. However…'

He paused, considering, before he gave his answer.

'I want to see her again tomorrow. Take her to the cellar for tonight, but tell Lucius and Narcissa that I want a room made up for her in the main house by tomorrow night. I want her to be comfortable for her final week.'

'Tell the Malfoys not to bother, Snape, I don't want his pity-'

'This has nothing to do with pity, Ginevra. This is for my amusement, only.'

Snape bit his tongue, unseen, in exasperation at both of them. But he knew who he had to obey.

'Just how 'comfortable' do you want her room to be, my lord?'

Voldemort laughed, waving his hand. 'Oh, every luxury, Severus. I'm sure Lucius can afford it.'

Snape smiled his artificial smile. Voldemort turned to Ginny.

'Thank you for your time, Ginevra,' he murmured. 'I have to say that I'm looking forward to renewing our acquaintance.'

Snape noticed the expression on her face, and gripped her by the arm, tugging her out of the room before she could say anything to make her situation any worse.

* * *

He spoke to her only after they arrived back in the cellar and he'd conjured up a plate of food and a goblet of water for her.

'Try and sleep if you can,' he said. 'It's late. Tomorrow you'll have a new room. I daresay the Malfoys might even vacate Draco's room for your convenience. They'd do anything to get back in the Dark Lord's good books.'

Ginny let out a hysterical shriek of laughter, clapping her hands. 'Oh, _really?_ Draco's room? How _generous!_ Honestly, I think I might piss myself with gratitude!'

He narrowed his eyes at her mockery. 'You need to improve your attitude. You are going to be kept in comfort until your execution. Some would be grateful for the Dark Lord's generosity.'

She glared at him. 'Fuck you, Snape. Fuck you, fuck your precious Dark Lord, and fuck his _fucking_ generosity.'

He looked at her. He almost wanted to laugh. Her ferocity would be amusing, if her situation were different. But was it genuine? He didn't know. He didn't know _her._

She was… different to what he'd expected. He'd expected an insipid, wide-eyed girl foolish enough to be star-struck by Potter; not the hard, flinty, scrappy little tomboy that stood in front of him.

'Did you tell the Dark Lord what happened to you in your first year at Hogwarts?'

She folded her arms across her chest. 'Yes.'

He felt alarm, which surprised him. 'Why?'

'He asked me where he knew me from, and so I told him. I don't know why. He doesn't even remember it. But I think he's curious about what happened.'

'Does he know that you raised the basilisk and ordered it to attack your fellow students?'

Her eyes flared up. 'That wasn't _me!_ He made me do it. I can't even remember it.'

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He hadn't meant to accuse. He had merely been asking. But the memories of her first year obviously troubled her.

'Does he know?' he repeated.

She shook her head. 'No. He knows that a memory of himself spoke to me from within a book, but no more than that.'

He nodded, thinking to himself. It was none of his business. She would be dead within a week. It didn't matter to him. He had to avenge Lily. That was his goal. Easing the suffering of this girl played no part in his plan.

Her hair glimmered copper in the candlelight.

'What exactly _did _happen down in the chamber?' he asked, without knowing why.

She frowned, hard. 'If I'm not going to tell _him_, I'm damned if I'm going to tell _you_.'

Snape could have cursed himself. She didn't know. He was only the Dark Lord's loyal servant to her.

'It would be wise,' he said slowly, 'not to inform him of the extent of your involvement with the opening of the chamber of secrets.'

She narrowed her eyes at him. 'Why?'

He looked at her long and hard. She was just a child, he reasoned with himself. He didn't have to help her. There was no reason for him to give a solitary damn about her. None at all. She was rude, uncouth, and too fierce for sympathy.

The physical resemblance was unfortunate. But she was nothing like Lily.

Still…

'The Dark Lord,' he said, barely whispering, 'enjoys a victim, Ginevra. Especially one of his own making. Do you understand me?'

She glared at him. 'I understand you. But I don't care. Can you understand me at all, Snape? I have lost everything. Do you know what that feels like?'

He filed away every though he had in his head. Deep inside. Hidden. Yes, he knew what it felt like.

'The boy who loved you would not want you to suffer any more than is necessary,' he murmured, before he turned away, locking the door behind him as he left the cellar.

'Why do you care, Snape?' she whispered.

The empty cellar swallowed her words whole.

She picked up the goblet of water and threw it against the closed door.

'WHY DO YOU CARE?'

There was no-one to answer her.


	3. Day Two

**A/N - **Alright, bitches? Nah, I'm not dead. Just very very busy. I'm so sorry this took forever and a bit. Love you all.

* * *

'_Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell; _

_Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, _

_Yet grace must still look so.'_ – William Shakespeare,_ Macbeth_

* * *

When he was thirteen, Snape experienced what he'd believed to be the worst day of his life.

He'd been walking across the castle grounds, his nose buried in a book, when a sharp pain hit him in the small of his back. He collapsed on all fours, his stomach churning with sudden, intense nausea. He squeezed his eyes shut against the feeling, but he knew the curse he'd been hit with. He'd used the same one on an unsuspecting Pettigrew last week – he should have known it would come back to bite him on the arse.

Potter and Black were laughing at him.

'That'll teach you to curse Peter, you wanker.'

Snape heaved, and vomited all over the grass. He knew the curse, and knew it wouldn't last for more than two minutes. But every second felt like a lifetime.

'And we saw you spitting in Remus' food at breakfast.'

'He fucking deserved it!' Snape shouted, before spewing the remains of his lunch on the grass. He was rewarded by a kick in the ribs.

'Sev!'

Snape winced in pure humiliation. He didn't care that she was coming to help him. If Lily saw him vomit his life would officially be over.

She held back his hair as he vomited on the grass, shouting abuse at Potter and Black as they ran away, laughing uproariously.

'You'll get what you deserve one day, you horrible little boys!'

Ordinarily her anger would have pleased him, but at that moment he was too humiliated to care. Lily had seen him vomit. He wanted to die.

He sat back on the grass, his head in his shaking hands, and after vanishing the vomit with a flick of her wand, Lily smoothed the hair back from his forehead, speaking soft, soothing words as she cupped his cheek in her hand.

'Just breathe, Sev.'

He looked up at her. She smiled her lovely smile.

'Just breathe.'

* * *

Ginny had been aware of her cautiously unfolding beauty from a young age. It made boys stammer and drop their books. It made girls whisper catty remarks behind their hands. It made male professors lean a little too close over her desk as they corrected her work.

She had been Harry's first time, though he had not been hers. Dean had asked her to a few months previously, and she'd said yes. The cold air had crept under the dormitory door, skimming over her thighs and breasts as Dean had run his fingers over her soft, freckled skin with a look close to wonder on his face.

Harry had been nervous. He trembled as she reached for his belt, and his fingers fumbled between her legs, but she didn't care. When he poured himself into her with a shuddering sigh she clung onto the back of his sweaty neck and smiled at the ceiling.

That night she didn't sleep. She stayed up so that Harry wouldn't hear her if she jolted awake screaming as she often did. She watched him sleep all night. She laid her head on his warm chest and heard his steady heartbeat, slow and rhythmic. _Like that, _she thought. _Like that._

He was perfect to her.

* * *

When Tom Riddle was sixteen, a girl fell in love with him.

Imogen Rosier had hair the colour of straw, as light and fluffy as candyfloss. She was a tiny girl with a large overbite. Tom Riddle was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She traced his name on her textbooks. She practiced the signature _Imogen Riddle_. She watched out of her window as he walked across the school grounds, her fingers pressed against the glass.

He was beautiful and she was thirteen. Of course she loved him.

A friend laughingly told Tom Riddle that rabbit-toothed Immy Rosier worshiped the ground he walked on. Tom had smiled; the thought amused him and he liked to be amused. Later that day he asked a trembling, delighted Imogen if she would accompany him on an excursion to the forest early that evening.

What happened that night nobody ever discovered, but Imogen never spoke a word again. Her parents took her out of school, deeming her mentally unfit to remain. The last Tom Riddle heard she had been put in the permanent residents' ward of St Mungo's. It was a shame really, he thought. She really did have the most delightful way of screwing up her nose as she screamed.

* * *

Snape opened the door to Draco's bedroom. The room was a wreck. Bedding lay all over the floor, some of it ripped apart. The dressing table was overturned, and the mirror lay shattered on the ground. The girl sat on the floor in the middle of the carnage, her knees drawn up to her chest.

'If you kept your dormitory room in this state, I can only marvel that you weren't expelled years ago,' he said by way of greeting.

She raised her head. The hate on her face would have hit him like a slap, if he had not had countless reasons for people to hate him before. It did not move him. By this stage in his life, his armour was too thick to be pierced.

He pointed his wand at the floor, conjuring up a plate of scrambled eggs. 'Breakfast.'

She spat neatly onto the food. He sighed, turning to the door. 'You can starve if you wish, it is only yourself you are causing suffering.'

'I want to know something.'

He closed his eyes and counted to five before turning back to face her. She was climbing to her feet.

'Yes?'

'I want to know why you hated Harry so much.'

He was taken aback, but he kept his expression neutral. No one would ever know why he hated Potter. He had made sure of it.

'What the Dark Lord hates, I hate,' he said smoothly – the old party line.

'Don't give me that,' she snapped. 'You never treated Dumbledore the way you treated Harry. And you weren't as cruel to the muggle-borns of the school as you were towards Harry - and your precious Dark Lord hates them more than anything. You had a personal grudge against Harry, and I want to know why.'

She was pushing him. He didn't want to lose his temper in front of her. Truth be told, he wanted her out of his way and as soon as possible. He hated her impertinence and her scruffiness and her coarse behaviour. He hated her red hair and her pretty face. He hated her because she was alive and Lily was dead.

'Potter was a rude, unintelligent boy who rode through life on the tailcoats of others,' he said calmly. 'He did nothing but trample over those he deemed unworthy of attention, and his ego was over-inflated due to the unwarranted attention of his betters-'

'Yes, yes, whatever,' she said, waving her hand. 'He told me about how you hated his father. And because of that – because of a twenty year old grudge - when Harry arrived at Hogwarts at eleven years old you just took one look at him and decided he was shit, didn't you?'

His temper was beginning to rise. 'If I did, then he did nothing to prove me incorrect.'

She was looking at him closely. 'Did you hate his mother, too?'

It was like he'd stepped into thin air for a second. In all the years since, no one except Dumbledore had spoken to him about Lily. Not even Black or Lupin, who had surely either known or guessed-

She was waiting for an answer.

'She was quite beneath my notice.' It hurt him to say the words.

'But you knew her?'

He bit on his tongue so hard he could taste iron. 'Yes. Barely.'

'And what do you think she'd have to say to you, if she knew you made her son's life miserable then watched, uncaring, as he died?'

He slapped her, hard. So hard she spun on the spot before falling to the floor, crashing into the debris she'd left of the dressing table. He did not regret hitting her. She was alive. Lily was dead. At that moment, Snape hated Ginny Weasley.

But as she climbed to her feet, there was a little too much understanding in her face. Just a flicker, a tiny light, but it was there. She knew she had hit a nerve somehow, but one reach into her mind through legimilency told him she was not certain what it was.

'You think yourself positively angelic, don't you?' he spat. 'A brave martyr, a saint beloved by the masses. You believe yourself to be the sweet, good, grieving war widow of a hero. Well you're not, Ginevra Weasley. I watched you throughout your school years and saw only a girl with minimal positive qualities. You're nothing more than an obnoxious, ungrateful child. You did badly at school, if I remember, showing no respect to either your teachers or any pupil you deemed unworthy of your attention. And now you think to stand there and lecture me? You're a hypocrite, just like that worthless boyfriend of yours-'

Her hand snapped up. Snape acted instinctively, catching her wrist in his fingers. A shard of glass shook a mere inch from his face. He twisted her hand away from him. She turned with it, crying in pain. She had little resistance, Snape realised. She was weak.

'Drop it,' he said, not raising his voice.

'You bastard!'

'I said drop it.'

'_Fuck-_'

She screamed as he twisted her arm so far up her back her fingers flexed helplessly in her own hair. 'Drop it, and I won't tell the Dark Lord what you just tried to do.'

'Do you think… I care?'

'You will. Drop it. Now.'

With a final, broken sob, she let the shard drop to the floor. Snape let go of her, swiftly crouching down to vanish the makeshift weapon. He turned and flicked his wand at the broken mirror, vanishing it. He was an idiot not to have done so when she'd first arrived.

She was crying now, curled up on her side with her fingers tangled in her hair.

'Fool,' he said simply. 'Do you have any idea how much worse you could make things for yourself?'

'I don't care,' she sobbed. 'What else could you do to me? I have nothing left, nothing! They're all dead, all of them, and I just want to be with them and I have to wait and I can't stand it…'

She trailed off. She was making no sound, her mouth a wide gaping hole. Globs of saliva fell from her lips.

He had seen this kind of grief before. He had _felt_ it.

He took a small step forwards. His hand rose, before it dropped again.

'Ginevra,' he said quietly.

She didn't answer. Her body still shook with those terrible, silent screams.

'Ginevra,' he whispered. 'Please.'

There was a long pause. Her sobs subsided enough for her to raise her head and look at him. There was a question in her eyes, and he knew why. He could kick himself.

He reached down and picked her up bodily by the arms, setting her own her feet. She looked up at him still. He didn't let go of her.

His wrist burned, and he dropped her arms. His Dark Mark seared with pain.

Snape looked at the strange girl in front of him. She raised an eyebrow a millimetre.

'I must go,' he muttered, turning swiftly to the door.

'Yeah, that's right, run off to Daddy,' she taunted.

He paused in the doorway for a moment, before he left the room and locked the door behind him.

* * *

Something very unusual was happening.

Lord Voldemort was in a marvellous mood. His power was near absolute, and all his enemies were dead, imprisoned, or had disappeared without trace. The Ministry would soon be disbanded and replaced by his new order of governance.

He was beginning to see a future in which he could relax. Soon he would have some time in which he could really enjoy the freedom that comes with victory. It was such a strange sensation to him he almost wondered what he would do with his time.

He needed something to do. And Ginerva Weasley intrigued him.

Potter was dead. But he was not conquered yet. His closest friend, the Weasley boy, was dead too. The mudblood friend of theirs was soon to follow. If Ginerva were to be killed as well, that would complete the destruction of everything the boy had ever loved. But that was not enough for Lord Voldemort. Another victory was dangling in front of him, tantalisingly close.

She had loved Potter. But she had also loved Tom Riddle. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.

The door opened and Snape crept into the room, as was his way. He bowed low, and Voldemort smiled on the man as a favoured son.

'Have a seat, Severus. I have some questions for you.'

Snape sat in one of the grand armchairs by the fireplace. He had to hand it to Malfoy - the room was exquisite. It was almost a pity that Lucius could no longer enjoy his wealth. He was a jittering, terrified man - it was pitiful to see. His usefulness had run out, and he knew it. Snape wondered whether he would have the good sense to disappear before the Dark Lord chose to dispense with him.

'I trust I have not summoned you at a bad time, Severus.'

'Not at all, my Lord. Your timing was immaculate, in fact.'

Voldemort smiled. 'Have you fed the girl?'

Snape didn't bother to ask who he meant. The Dark Lord had a new project, which meant he was unlikely to think of much else. 'Yes. She's still at the stage of refusing the food we give her. She will eat when it gets too much for her.'

'They always do,' Voldemort replied genially. 'Tell me, do you remember much of her from her time at school?'

Snape's voice was impassive. 'She was mostly unremarkable. Quiet and subdued for her younger years. Then she took up quidditch, and with that came the arrogance that often goes with the sport. She was sometimes in detention for talking back to her teachers. From what I recall, she was a mouthy teenager. Nothing more.'

Voldemort put his chin in his hand. 'But she found my diary?'

'So I heard, yes.'

'How did you hear about it?'

'There were… incidents.'

'Incidents?'

Snape could feel himself being backed into a corner. 'I believe the diary began to have some kind of… influence over her.'

'Indeed? What happened?'

Snape chewed the inside of his cheek. He did not know why he didn't want to tell him. Ginevra was simply taking up time he needed to avenge Lily. But he knew it would be a base betrayal to tell her secret. He had betrayed more people than he cared to count. But the girl… if it weren't for her damned red hair…

'Tell me.'

Snape had taken too long, he knew. He looked at his master. He could not afford to arouse suspicion now, not after eighteen years.

Voldemort turned his red glare onto Snape, and Snape saw a world of power in his gaze.

'You tell me.'

What else could he do?

Snape took a deep breath, and told him everything he knew.

* * *

A few hours later, Snape went back into Ginny's bedroom. She lay back on her bed, staring at the canopy above it. He cleared his throat, but she did not turn to look at him.

'The Dark Lord wishes to see you, Miss Weasley.'

'Tell him I'm busy.'

Snape tutted and looked around the room. The food he'd left for her earlier lay congealed and uneaten in the corner. He vanished it with a flick of his wand. 'You'll have to eat, sometime.'

'Will I?' she turned to face him then, her head at a right angle to her body, though she made no effort to move from the bed.

'You'll have to eat if you want to survive, Ginevra.'

'What's the point?' she whispered, smiling at him joylessly. 'I've got less than a week, Snape. I'm going to die in six days.'

There was nothing he could say to that. So he kept silent.

She breathed a tiny laugh, then pulled her legs up to her chest. Her robe rode up around her knees, showing a pale pair of legs. Her fingers tangled in the red hair that spread over her pillow. 'What will they do with my body?'

Snape felt warm and uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 'I don't know. Does it matter?'

She seemed not to have heard him. 'Will they bury me, do you suppose? Or will they burn me, like Dumbledore?'

He looked at her. She was losing it. He had been expecting it to happen. Most condemned prisoners did, at some point. But at least this morbid curiosity was better than the screaming, wailing, and muttering some of the other prisoners had settled upon.

'Ginevra,' he said, his voice cold, 'The Dark Lord wants to see you. I will not allow him to be kept waiting. And if you refuse to come now, he will only come to you. And if he has to do that he will be most displeased, do you understand me?'

She sighed and swung her legs off the bed, looking at him with hard eyes as she stood up. 'Of course I understand you,' she murmured. 'How could I not? I knew him better than anyone else when I was only eleven years old.'

Snape paused at that, before he took her hand and evaporated with her, taking her to see his master once again.

* * *

'Miss Weasley.' Voldemort smiled as Snape left him with the girl. 'I trust you are finding the accommodation to your satisfaction?'

Ginny glared at him. 'What do you want with me?'

He didn't skip a beat. He simply lowered himself into his chair. 'I want to talk to you about what happened in your first year at Hogwarts.'

Ginny took a deep breath. 'I told you. I wrote in Tom Riddle's diary, and he wrote back to me.'

'That's not all that happened, Ginevra. I want the whole truth from you.'

'That _is_ the whole truth,' she replied, fighting her rising panic. 'He became my confidante, that's all. I was eleven and needed someone to talk to. As soon as I realised who it really was-'

'You began to assist him in opening the Chamber of Secrets?'

Her mouth fell open. She felt like she was going to faint. 'How… how did you-'

'You must have realised who your headmaster's loyalty belongs to, Ginevra. Severus has told me everything.'

She blinked. 'Everything?'

He smiled. 'All about how you opened the Chamber of Secrets. All about how you set the Basilisk on your fellow students. All about how you painted messages of terror on the school walls with blood.'

She pressed her lips together, utterly furious. Why had Snape told him? Why had he tried to convince her not to do so?

'But I would like to hear things from your point of view, Ginevra. So tell me – as one friend to another, as we once were. Tell me how it happened.'

Ginny swallowed. 'I can't.'

He cocked his head to one side. 'Why?'

'Because I never told anyone,' she said, truthfully.

'Of course you didn't. No one could understand what happened to you.' He rose from his chair and stepped closer towards her. 'But _I_ could. It was only you and I involved, wasn't it? Just you and me. We were alone in this.'

She stared at him, terrified of the implication.

'And I don't believe it's fair that when you and I were so… deeply involved in one another's lives for a year, you can remember it and I cannot.'

She stared at him in disbelief. 'Are you saying I _owe_ you?'

'I am saying I deserve an explanation of events.'

There was a long pause while Ginny dug her nails into her palms. She owed him nothing, she knew that. But he would find out one way or another, if he wanted to know. And she'd rather tell him herself than have another person tell lies about her.

'I'll tell you,' she said slowly. 'But only so you can know the terrible things you did to an eleven year old girl. I owe you nothing more than that.'

He smirked. 'A reasonable compromise.' He turned and walked back to his armchair, sinking into it. 'Tell me.'

She closed her eyes, and counted to five. Her mouth opened, then closed again. She shook her head. She couldn't talk about it. She had never told anyone about it.

She heard Voldemort shift in his chair. She wondered just how long he'd wait for her to start talking. He'd wait for as long as it took, she realised. Because he knew that, deep down, she wanted to tell him.

'A few months after I began writing in the diary, it began to make me do things.'

He looked interested. 'I made you do things? Did I use threats, or persuasion?'

She pressed her lips together, hating his wording. 'Well, at first he said he needed my help. He needed me to tell him what was happening at the school. Who was there, how it was run, that sort of thing.'

'And you told me?'

'I told _him_,' she retorted. 'I thought he was my friend, and I didn't see any harm in telling him things that everyone in the school already knew.'

He nodded. 'But I assume it didn't end there.'

She took a deep breath. 'No, it didn't end there. He was very interested in Harry, and Dumbledore, and the families of the students I knew.'

He smiled. 'Ah yes, even as a youngster I knew the advantage of forward planning. But when it became clear action needed to be taken, that the Chamber needed to be opened once again, did I ask for your help then, too?'

'Yes. In a way. He-'

'I gave you instructions and you followed them?'

'No!' She pulled herself together. 'No. I was made to do them.'

'So I threatened you into obeying my orders?'

'No. I began to… lose my memory. The diary would take over my mind, and would commit the crimes using my body.'

He raised his eyebrows, a small smirk pulling at his lips. 'You don't have to give the same excuse to me as you did to your teachers.'

'I didn't do it!' she said hastily. 'Or I… I _did_ do it, but I have no memory of it. The diary entered my mind. It possessed me and used me to attack the other students. But I wasn't myself.'

'And your teachers believed that flimsy explanation, did they?'

'They believed I was telling the truth.'

'Ah.' He smiled almost indulgently. 'Without any proof?'

She paused, flummoxed. 'What?'

'Was there any proof that your story was correct?'

'Well… yes,' she stammered. 'Harry backed me up.'

'Oh yes,' he drawled. 'How convenient it must be to have to Boy Who Lived to provide evidence on your behalf.'

'What's that supposed to… look, I was telling the truth, and they believed me! Dumbledore said-'

'I do not care what the old fool said.'

There was a long silence. Ginny formed sentences in her head before discarding them, trying all the while to hold on to Ginny Weasley in the core of her heart, like a flame guttering in the wind.

'Can I ask you something?' Voldemort said eventually.

'I'm sure you will anyway,' she fired back.

He only smiled. 'Were you happy to do my work?'

'Happy? No… you don't… of course I wasn't happy to do it!'

'But you had reason to be angry with all whom you attacked, did you not? Severus told me in detail about each of them. The caretaker had threatened to expel Potter. Another of the victims monopolised Potter's attention – talking incessantly to his idol while you simply watched him from afar. And another accused Potter of attacking his fellow students.'

'And Hermione Granger,' he murmured with a smile, rising from his chair. 'Potter's closest female friend. I can only imagine how you felt about _her_. How _dare_ she? This bossy little muggle getting close to Potter - hugging him, talking with him, sitting with him. No doubt to this day you take great pleasure in the fact that you, at least, are prettier than she is-'

'No. Stop… stop!' she said, her voice breathless. 'I was only doing what you made me do. I couldn't stop it-'

'Then why didn't you tell anyone?' he said softly. 'Are you so selfish that you cared more about your own reputation than your fellow students' welfare?'

'You don't know anything about it!' she shouted. 'I was a child. I was terrified of what was happening, of what my family would say, of whether I was going to be expelled. How could I have told anyone?'

'Opening your mouth and saying the words might have been a starting point,' he said with a smug smile.

'SHUT UP!' She screamed, completely losing it. 'You love this, don't you? Does it give you pleasure, that you forced an eleven-year-old girl to do such horrible things in your name?'

'In my name?' he drawled, walking slowly towards her. 'Did you ever write on those walls 'This is the work of the heir of Slytherin?''

'Well… no, but-'

'I put it to you that you enjoyed being the centre of attention. You relished the one claim to fame you had – the one thing that might get Potter to notice you, and might stop your brothers mocking you.'

'Of course I didn't… I didn't know it was happening! I never meant to hurt anyone. I don't take pleasure from other people's pain. I'm not like _you!_'

'Ah, yes,' he smiled, circling around her. 'Pleasure and pain. Two very different concepts, and yet you cannot have one without the other.'

He was behind her now, and with a shudder of revulsion she felt his hands brush over her waist. She wanted to vomit, but she steeled herself, imagining herself to be made of stone. She would prove to him what she was made of.

He pulled her back against him. She could feel his bones and sinew in her back. His fingernails were digging in to her hips now, so hard she could feel her skin tear. If she were not made of stone, she would scream until her mouth bled.

'Have you ever held your hand briefly into a flickering flame?' he whispered into her ear. 'Have you ever plucked out one of your hairs for no other reason than a miniscule thrill? You see, my dear, sometimes you have to ask yourself - where does the pain end and the pleasure begin?'

The fingers on her hips softened. Still present, still undeniably there, but with no sharpness. A fierce pressure, but no pain.

She looked down at the hands pressed into her hips. No longer white, veiny, skeletal, but pale, large, and young. The body she could feel pressing into her own was warm now, and strong. A broad chest rose and fell behind her.

She turned her head involuntarily, and Tom Riddle's face looked down at her, mere inches from her own. His handsome face was smiling, and a lock of black hair curled over his forehead.

'When did you start to enjoy hurting them, Ginevra?'

She stared up at him. He was beautiful, but terrible. His smile promised her the world, and all of the evil and beauty it contained.

At the knock on the door, he pushed her to the floor. She grazed her palms as she landed, and when she looked up from under her hair he was the monstrous Lord Voldemort once more.

The door swung open, and Snape strode into the room. He looked only very briefly at Ginny before he rose his face to his master.

'The crowd has gathered, my Lord. It is time.'

'Excellent.' Voldemort bent down and raised Ginny up by the arm. 'Would you care to join me, my dear?'

She shook as she answered. 'What for?'

He smiled. 'Why, for the meting out of justice, of course.'

Her knees buckled beneath her. 'Justice?'

He nodded. 'All traitors are condemned, Ginevra. You know that better than anyone. Now come with me. I want you to see it.'

'What?' she stammered, terrified. 'No.'

Voldemort smiled all the wider, and took her by the arm, pulling her through the door as she struggled. 'It will be easier for you, this way,' he said as he dragged her along. 'It will prepare you for your own execution – if you have seen others face death with dignity, I am sure it will help you to do so.'

'No. No, please!'

Snape felt his hand rise, before he dropped it. There was nothing he could do to stop the Dark Lord's will.

But he could be with her, at least.

He followed the monster and the screaming girl out of the room.

* * *

The courtyard under the Malfoys' grand balcony was full of a roaring crowd. Ginny did not consider that those who were against Voldemort's actions did not dare to show their faces. All she could hear was naked loathing for those who were to die.

She began to struggle. She wanted to scream. She _needed_ to scream. But someone was holding her back, with a hand clamped over her mouth. She didn't know who it was until she felt Snape's greasy air brush against her cheek.

It seemed to Ginny that an endless parade fell through the trapdoor, strangled to death by the noose. In truth there were only five victims that afternoon. She watched as McGonagall, her favourite teacher, dropped through the trap. Then Slughorn, Kingsley, and Lupin. The final victim was Tonks, who gave Ginny a small wave before she dropped.

Ginny's head reeled, her brain no longer to make sense of it. As her eyes flickered back and forth, she became aware only that Voldemort was smiling at her. It was not a smile of triumph or of malice. It was a smile of shared secrets and inside jokes. It was a smile of friendship. She looked at him for a moment, then bit down so hard on her tongue that blood filled her mouth.

Voldemort waved a hand at the person holding on to her. She was dragged forcibly backwards. Her body was limp, and she was dizzy with nausea. Snape eventually had to lift her up like a child to carry her.

He dropped her suddenly when they reached her room. She dropped to her knees, half crawling across the floor as she vomited in great heaves. She couldn't stop it, and even if she could she needed to expel every horror from her body. She felt she could bleed to death and it still wouldn't be enough.

How many more had to die?

She curled up on her side, shivering, her hand falling limply into the pool of vomit.

How much more death did she have to see? Her family, her friends, the love of her life. And Tom knew, as he always did, how to hurt her. Tom. Damned, evil, fucking twisted unbearable _Tom-_

'Just breathe, Ginevra.'

She opened her eyes, looking up at Snape. He hadn't moved from the doorway, and his expression remained unfathomable.

'Just breathe.'


End file.
